The Actual & Truthful Adventures of Becky Thatcher

by Iacopo Bruno

  “I didn’t know Mr. Dobbins smoked,” Amy said. “He used to be a dentist so he should know better.” She wrinkled her nose. “His teeth ain’t the best, anyhow.”

  “That one tooth of his looks like a rotten raisin,” I agreed. “Probably from eating all his students’ sweets.”

  Sid waved a hand at our talk. “No, he don’t smoke. My money’s on Davy Fry.” He pointed to a boy tossing rocks at a bird’s nest on the other side of the stream. “Say, we’re all trying for Witchy Widow Douglas’s pot the Saturday after this one. Thought you might want to know.”

  You thought right. “How come you’re not doing the stealing this Saturday?”

  “There’s a full moon that night and her powers are sure to be too strong for us.” He had an excited twinkle in his eye, just like Jon did when he talked about items of a superstitious nature. “Reckon you all might want to hold our bet money for us when the time comes?”

  Hmph. “I reckon me and Amy will be doing that bet right along with you.” I searched Amy’s face for permission. She had said she was up for some adventure.

  Her eyes widened, but she put on a determined expression. “We sure will.”

  Sid frowned. “Joe barely agreed to you all holding the money. There’s no way he’ll let girls in.”

  “Money’s money,” I said. “We’d fatten up the winnings pot. How much to get in?”

  Sid looked up through the cottonwoods, considering. Finally he shrugged. “Gotta put in thirty cents. And I gotta talk to Joe about it and make sure he agrees.”

  “Fine,” I told him. “You’ll have your thirty cents, and come that Saturday night, Amy and I will have the whole pot.”

  “We’ll see about that,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I know a few tricks to help me around a witch and her witch hound.”

  “As it so happens,” I called to him as he walked off, “so do I.”

  Amy Lawrence poked me gently on the elbow. “You do?” She sucked on her lower lip and stared at me with worried eyes.

  I patted her knee. “I do. Don’t you worry, Amy. A full moon may not be good for stealing from witches, but it’s perfect for getting protective dirt.”

  She tilted her head sideways and cleared her throat. “Getting protective dirt from where?”

  I could see she was in danger of backing out and I didn’t want to overwhelm her with details that included the word “graveyard.” I also suspected that sharing the news about the loose and murderous Pritchards would be unwise. “We’ll talk about it later,” I told her.

  I’d never actually attempted using cemetery dirt to ward off a witch, but I’d spent enough time listening to Jon’s stories to pick up that trick and others. Jon knew more about superstitious business than anybody I could think of. And while Daddy would probably put any sort of witchy dealings in the category of irresponsible and not grown-up, Jon would have eaten this adventure up like a hunk of lemon pie.

  I sure wished he was with me to help.

  No, I just wished he was with me.

  Chapter Four

  Beetles and Pritchards and witches (and Sam Clemens, to boot)

  Early morning was the best time to dig up gull beetles, the ugly kind with feelers that could scare the hair off a baby. I didn’t know why they were called gull beetles, but I reckoned it had something to do with the high-pitched shriek Ruth Bumpner would let out when she found one buried in her egg salad sometime in the next week or so.

  I’d been around most of the backyard by six o’clock Saturday morning, lifting the big stones that bordered our garden. At six thirty I headed around front and bent over the roots of our big oak, as the stinkiest stinkbugs tended to gnaw on cool, woody dirt. Across the road and down the street, I saw that the writer man, Sam Clemens, was rocking again. This time his steaming cup was forgotten while he jotted something down and chuckled to himself. I wondered what sort of knee-slapper he was thinking up and whether Sid and Tom would get to hear it.

  There’s a thought. Maybe Mr. Sam Clemens would have some inside information about the Sawyer boys that could help me with the witchy bet and with getting a little revenge on Tattletale Tom.

  But before I could walk over and pick his brain, Miss Ada shouted at me to come in for breakfast. I ran upstairs real quick to wash up and change clothes. Mama’s door was open. She was standing by her bed, folding clothes.

  “Hey, Mama,” I said. “Miss Ada says breakfast is ready if you want to eat with me and Daddy.”

  She lifted her chin to look at me. The shadows on her face were deep this morning, like the dark sadness she carried around had risen from her heart and settled under her eyes. She looked awful weary. Too weary to bother with me.

  “Not today,” she said. When she spoke, Mama’s voice was quiet and fragile and broken sounding. Like a bee’s wing being torn. She returned to folding, placing another shirt onto a small stack. They were boys’ shirts, several of them still holding stains that I remember her chiding Jon for making.

  Blinking my eyes in the dusty hallway, I slapped at my front on the way downstairs, trying to loosen the pressing-down feeling that had settled onto my chest. I poked my head in the kitchen and saw that Miss Ada was stirring something. Grits, maybe.

  “Becky, join me in the dining room,” Daddy’s voice boomed through the hallway. “And bring me some of whatever Ada’s got on the stove.”

  I brought us each a bowl of cheesy grits and sat down across from him. It was strange eating outside of the kitchen. It felt wrong somehow, like there was too much extra space and not enough people to fill it.

  Daddy’s eyes were raw and red. “What are you dressed so nicely for?” he asked. “It’s Saturday.”

  I had stuffed myself into another fishskin and was determined to be extra good, so that Daddy wouldn’t have any reason to think his daughter would be sneaking out to rob grave dirt that evening. “My new friend Amy’s coming over. We’re going to look around town and see if any chicks have hatched and maybe bake something.” And then talk over how to use protective dirt against a witch and her witch hound. “What are you doing?”

  He blew on a spoonful, let it rest for a second, then blew again. When the grits hit his mouth, Daddy let out a soft sigh, like maybe he should permanently reconsider his coffee-only breakfasts. “I have a meeting at the courthouse. The Pritchards have struck in the town of Shirley, just north of us.” He scooped up a few more mouthfuls.

  I took a big bite and sighed happily like Daddy had done. Mmm. Miss Ada put in extra cheese, I could tell. “Any chance they’ll come here? I saw that poster in your office.” I continued shoveling in my grits. Marauder talk made me hungry.

  “They must have a considerable load of stolen items and cash money at this point, so we know they’ll be stashing it somewhere, but it’s not likely they’ll come to St. Petersburg with the Law on their tails. There’s not enough places for them to cause trouble in this town. I don’t believe the sheriff here has ever dealt with much more than a few dog bites.”

  I picked at my knee scab, scratching the itchy parts and trying to peel off the hardened edges. “You okay, Daddy? You never eat breakfast.”

  “Well, I needed something in my belly this morning.” He rubbed his substantial paunch. “Your mama had a rough night and I didn’t get any sleep. I made the mistake of trying to talk to her.” He sighed. “She just needs some alone time.”

  I pushed my bowl to the center of the table. “She seems to have plenty.” I drummed my fingers to keep from saying that people who need to be alone all the time oughtn’t get married and have children in the first place.

  “Shh, Becky. It’s hardest on a mother. They need the most time to let go.” Pushing his breakfast aside, he placed his plate-size hands over mine. “I’m glad Amy’s coming over.” A tired smile spread over his cheeks. “Shows me you’re growing up and finding interests other than sneaking out of the house.”

  I covered up a snort with a fake cough. I didn’t want to grow up, and I’d be s
neaking out of the house that very night.

  “You all right?”

  I nodded, pulled my bowl toward me, and kept eating. The last scrape of grits was lumpy, and I had a hard time getting it down my throat. While I swallowed extra hard, I stared at the two empty places at the table and wondered whether Mama had chosen to let me go instead of Jon.

  A hesitant knock at the front door saved me from getting wound up and sharing any of that business with Daddy.

  “Come in!” I shouted real loud, ignoring Daddy’s a more grown up young lady wouldn’t shout like that wince. “Amy’s here. She and I are gonna take a lunch and eat by the river today, Daddy.”

  “Fine, fine,” he said, returning to his bowl of grits.

  “Just wait for me in the kitchen, Amy!” I ran upstairs for Jon’s old schoolbag, which I’d turned into my adventuring satchel, and made sure his marbles were inside. I felt a powerful temptation to slip outta my fishskin and into overalls, but I didn’t.

  My fist hung in the air for a good minute before I knocked on Mama’s door on the way back downstairs. “Mama? Amy Lawrence and me are going to town. You need anything?” I knew she didn’t, but some part of me was dying to hear her voice again.

  A few hesitant footsteps creaked along her floor. She came close enough to the closed door for part of her shadow to poke out.

  “Mama? You need anything?” I waited, but she didn’t say a word. Kneeling real quiet, I touched Mama’s shadow until it silently withdrew from under the door. Then I stood and stomped downstairs.

  Right before we left, Miss Ada gave me a lunch and a bag full of cherries and asked if we’d fetch her a five-pound sack of sugar while we were out. We scooted out the back door into a perfect September day, nice and sunny with a wispy breeze. There were only a few white clouds bundled together in the otherwise blue sky, and they were too high and far away to give a thought to.

  “I’ll teach you how to send the pits flying, if you want,” I told Amy, hefting the bag of cherries.

  “Oh, that’d be awful nice,” she said. “I’ve never tried.”

  “We’ll get that changed,” I promised. “You’ll be spitting like a mad cat soon enough.”

  As we passed the Sawyer house, I saw Tom and Sid in their side garden. Tom was yanking beans and putting them into a basket. Sid was plucking overripe tomatoes and eyeing Tom’s rear end like it was a mighty tempting target.

  “How did their mama die?” I asked. It was a might early to ask Amy about her own mama, but the Sawyers’ mama was safe asking territory.

  “I think it was a fever of some kind, but I couldn’t say for certain. They lived across the river, but got sent here after she died. Word is, Tom squallered plenty, screaming and throwing his dirty nappies around and causing trouble. Drove his daddy crazy enough to dump both Sid and Tom with Aunt Polly. Tom’s been making up for it by being a goody-goody ever since.” Amy half-grinned at me, looking for agreement.

  “Sure he has,” I said. “He’d probably lick Aunt Polly’s silver to a shine if she’d let him.” I was glad to be well out of nappies when Jon died or I might have done some throwing myself. With Mama ignoring me the way she was, that would have made for a stinky house.

  Amy grabbed my hand and squeezed hard. “Now, tell me your big plans for this witchy bet with the Widow Douglas.”

  I gave her the details. She tugged her lower lip into her mouth, looking bucktoothed by the time I finished.

  “I’ve never stolen a thing in my life, and a witch is bound to be watching all the time. Look!” Amy let out a little cry and jammed her finger into my side. “There she is now!”

  Sure enough, one block over from us the Widow Douglas was walking along the road toward her house, the big blue tick-hound by her side. She carried a mug that let off a line of white steam. Just as she passed a small yellow house with a strip of wilted mums bordering its front fence, the Widow gave a little glance to her right and left and dumped the contents of the cup right on the flowers.

  “See there.” Amy pointed. “That’s Ruth Bumpner’s house. She just poured something witchy right in the garden!”

  “Whatever was in that cup was cursed for sure,” I agreed. “But Ruth Bumpner is as mean as Mr. Dobbins, and I suspect her mama’s not much better, so I can’t say I’m opposed.”

  “She’s watching us now!”

  The Widow had reached her own yard. She peered our way over a set of little glasses. Her gray hair was hanging down, roped around her shoulder in a long braid, not tucked up in a tight bun like most old ladies. The hound padded back and forth across the yard, thick strands of drool running down its jowls.

  “That dog has teeth over an inch long,” Amy whispered, as though the Widow was much closer. “Last year he killed and dragged a young black bear onto the lawn. The Widow left it there for a week to rot.”

  I gulped. “We’ll be fine. Bears aren’t all that fast. You’re a pretty good runner, right?” Ignoring her horrified face, I gathered my courage and gave the Widow a friendly wave to show that I wasn’t gossiping about her this time. Amy took in a loud breath.

  “Amy, you can’t go gasping like that,” I hissed at her. “You gotta learn to control your noises.” I made a note to tell her not to speak on the night we went stealing. Not that it would really count as stealing when a witch was involved.

  “Why’d you wave at her? She just looks mad, Becky. She’s witching us right now.” Amy poked my side and let out a little squeak. “See her mouth moving?”

  I did. Part of me suspected the Widow was just talking to her dog, whose head was lolling back and forth underneath her fingers, but Amy was most likely right. We were being witched. I grabbed my best friend’s elbow and pushed her down the road, and was lucky enough to find us two rocks on the ground. I handed one to her. “Amy, listen to me. Squeeze this rock tight and say these words:

  Witchy spell, witchy spell, bother me none,

  Shave down a horse, and bite off the sun,

  Horny toad, pig slop, kitten in a barn,

  Your witchy spell don’t bother me a darn.”

  Amy looked pale, but repeated the words with my help. “Now what?”

  “Throw that rock as far as you can, Amy. That’ll take the spell off us.” I hauled back and threw my rock down the road.

  Amy did the same and flinched when hers landed right outside of the Bumpner house.

  “Good,” I said. “Maybe Pinchy-face will pick up your rock and get cursed.”

  Gripping my dress sleeve, Amy shook me a little. “What? Cursed?”

  I shrugged. “Better her than us. Just a little curse, probably. A wart maybe.”

  Amy released my sleeve, her mouth twisting toward one ear. “Becky, are you awful sure we should do this bet?”

  I fixed her with a stern gaze. “Amy Lawrence, I have two questions for you. Do you trust me as a best friend, and do you trust that I would never, ever allow harm to come to you?”

  She looked properly ashamed and took two big breaths. “Of course. I told you I was ready to have adventures.”

  “Good.” I took her hand in mine and turned us around. “Then let’s go settle this bet business right now. We’ll talk to Sid and make sure we’re good and in.” I smiled to remind her that everything would be just fine. “Just think of that five dollars, Amy. Why, we could buy anything in the world with that! We could buy a ticket on a steamboat and go all the way to the ocean maybe. Besides,” I said, putting my arm around her back, “all we need is some dirt from a graveyard under the moonlight, taken from a bad man’s grave, and the Widow Witch can’t touch us.”

  Amy shrugged my arm off and stopped walking. She turned to face me. “Becky Thatcher, is that the honest truth?”

  I scratched an itch. St. Petersburg sure was full of skitters. “Sure it is. Follow me.”

  When the Sawyer porch came back into view, it wasn’t Sid we saw, but Tom. He was rocking in a chair next to Sam Clemens and the two of them looked to be having a bully of a chat.


  “He’s probably telling about every bad thing Sid’s ever done,” I said.

  Amy laughed. “I reckon there’s a piece or two about you, too, Becky. He found out it was you who hit him with that spitball. Ruth Bumpner told at school yesterday.”

  That Pinchy-face has a prank coming her way. “He deserved it for laughing at you. Let’s go see what he’s blabbing about.” When we stepped onto the porch, both Tom and Sam stopped their jabbering and Tom turned red as a ripe apple, which told me exactly who he’d been snitching on. “Where’s Sid?” I asked.

  “Somewhere with Joe Harper,” Tom said, frowny-pouting while he looked down the road. “They wouldn’t let me along.”

  Amy coughed politely to cover her laugh, but I just fixed him with a glare. “Tom Sawyer, if you’re looking for someone to feel sorry for you, you best go look in a mirror. Nobody else is gonna do it.”

  “You must be Becky Thatcher,” Sam Clemens said, recognition lighting up his eyes when he looked at my black braids. “I don’t believe we were properly introduced last time we met. Tom’s just been telling me about you.”

  Tom blushed even harder and I opened my mouth to give him a verbal licking.

  “And this must be Amy Lawrence,” Sam said quickly, smiling at Amy. “Tom tells me you and Becky are fast friends. Say, you got something to write with?” One of Sam’s hands went to his head and knocked against it. The other held up a broken pencil. “I have to get this sentence out of my brain before it flies away.”

  I gave him a good stare. “A sentence flying away?”

  “Sure. Haven’t you ever wanted to say something to somebody, but when you get right there in front of them, you find your words went and hid somewhere?”

  That happened near every time I’d tried to talk to Mama during the last year. I dug in my adventuring satchel for a pencil, jumped at a skitter bite, and out came my bag of marbles. The leather tie must’ve been loose, because they spilled all over the porch. “Dumb skitter,” I explained, bending to gather the marbles. “Don’t you touch those,” I warned Tom, who had bent over to help.